Every night at bedtime, we are creatures of habit: bath, jammies, vitamins, and brushing teeth with daddy; hair, stories, and prayers at eight with mommy. It all runs like clockwork, right down to the conversations I share with our four-year-old son.
"So, what do you want to talk to Jesus about tonight?"
"Kitty (the Knuffle Bunny equivalent in our family), you, Daddy, and Grant."
"Alright, I think I'd like to thank Jesus for our family too, and also for food to eat and a house to keep us warm. So I have my things and you have your things...would you like to start or finish?"
"No, Mommy, you can do it all. I don't know how to pray."
(Which pains me because I've tried to model for him that praying is just a conversation, but that's a whole other blog post.)
So I pray. We hug. The lights flicker off. He chases sleep like a teenager chases work.
"Mommy, I had a bad dream." (Predictably, one minute later.)
From my bedroom, I troubleshoot: "Tell Jesus about it. He can take it all away."
A resigned "Okay" makes its way though the walls to my heart.
Next, a tiny voice starts a big conversation:
Dear Jesus,
I had a bad dream.
I had a bad dream.
Please take it all away.
Amen.
Decidedly peaceful, his weight shifts, his covers crumple, his breathing slows.
Tonight, my celebration is that he took the risk -- he talked to Jesus himself and for his purposes.
And now, he found rest.
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| Sweet slumber -- 10.19.2013 |
